The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

CHAPTER 10

On Friday morning Qwilleran opened a can of lobster for the cats" breakfast. "This is the last junk food you're going to get for a while. For the rest of our stay here, you'll have homemade meatloaf, delivered fresh, every other day, by bicycle. That's the good news. The bad news is that you are now raccoons."

Through long association with this pair of connoisseurs, he knew their favorites: freshly roasted turkey, homemade meatloaf, and canned red salmon, top grade. Nevertheless, they gobbled the lobster with rapturous slurping, waving of tails, and clicking of fangs on the plate. Yum Yum looked up after each swallow to confirm that Qwilleran was still there. Afterward, she jumped onto his lap while he drank his coffee, stroked her fur, and paid her extravagant compliments. He called it their apres-breakfast schmooz.

Their dinner was served earlier than usual that evening, because Qwilleran wanted to check the post office before it closed. He cubed the meatloaf precisely—five-sixteenths of an inch, he estimated. "Don't say I never do anything for you," he said to the waiting cats. They were quieter than usual, and they were sitting a little farther away. After placing a generous plateful on the floor, he stepped back to enjoy their ecstasy. They approached it stealthily and backed away. He sampled a cube himself. There was nothing wrong with it; in fact, it might be described as ... tasty. "Try it! You'll like it!" They walked away with heads lowered and tails drooping.

"Well, I'm not going to stand here and do catfood commercials for you brats!" He left the plate on the floor and dressed for his trip downtown.

The resort area was gearing up for what everyone hoped would be a busy weekend, although the atmosphere was more wishful than confident. Horse cabs lined up at the ferry dock. Cargo was being offloaded for the deli and general store—mostly beer. In an extra bid for business, the T-shirt studio was hanging choice designs on clotheslines strung across the front of the shop.

In the same spirit of hopeful doubt, Qwilleran checked the post office, but there was no news from Oregon. He assumed Polly was having a rollicking vacation—looking for puffin birds, giggling with her college roommate, and talking about him.

For a while he watched vacationers disembarking with bevies of children, their shouts punctuating the waterfront hush: "Junior, don't hang over the railing! . . , Mom, did you bring my rollerblades?... Lookit all the horses! What are they for?... Hey, Dad, could this island sink?"

Among the arrivals were six backpackers. The size oi their gear suggested they were the crew who had beer camping at the lighthouse on weekends and hang gliding on the dune. They were attractive young people, Qwil-leran thought: the women, healthy; the men, athletic; and all exposed skin, enviably suntanned. Also arriving, with luggage to be loaded into a carriage, was Dr. June Halliburton with a limp-brimmed sunhat shading her white skin and red hair.

In the hotel lobby Qwilleran picked up a copy of Friday's Moose County Something and was surprised to find the following item on page one:

SNAKE-BITE VICTIM

AIRLIFTED FROM ISLAND.

The sheriff's helicopter evacuated a victim of snake bite from Pear Island to the Pickax General Hospital Thursday. Elizabeth C. Appel-hardt, 23, a summer resident of the Grand Island Club, was in good condition today after treatment, according to a hospital spokesperson. This is the third medical emergency handled by the sheriff's airborne division this month.

Only the sheriff would like the coverage, Qwilleran mused; he was always campaigning for re-election or lobbying for more funds to buy rescue equipment. The queen mother would dislike the publicity because it invaded her family's Olympian privacy. The victim would take umbrage at the mention of her age. Don Exbridge would explode because the report made the island sound hazardous to one's health.

There was already a commotion erupting in the manager's office, and Qwilleran caught sight of a bald head and waving arms as Exbridge shouted, "Get those damned T-shirts off the front of the store! What do they think this is? A Persian bazaar?"

As soon as the dining room opened, Qwilleran presented himself at the reservation desk.

"Hi, Mr. Q! You're early," said Derek Cuttlebrink, resplendent in pirate's tricorne and one gold earring. "Are you all alone tonight?"

"No, I've brought my friend, Anatole France." He held up his copy of Penguin Island. "I'd like a quiet table where I can read—also a reservation for tomorrow night at eight o'clock—three persons." In a lower voice he asked, "Any luck with your assignment?"

Derek nodded importantly. "Gotta contact," he mumbled while appearing to study his reservation chart. "How about Sunday night? I'm off early."

"Come to the fourth cottage behind the inn."

Over shrimp bisque and Cajun pork chops Qwilleran finished reading his book and was leaving the dining room when another blowup occurred in the manager's office. There was a torrent of invective, and Dwight Somers came rushing out. He caught sight of Qwilleran. "I need a drink! Come into the bar."

He led the way to a secluded booth and ordered a double martini. "That guy's a madman when things don't go the way he planned. And don't try to reason with him, or you'll get your head lopped off. If I'm still here by the Fourth of July, I'll be surprised. Either I'll be fired, or I'll be in jail for murder."

"What's happened now?" Qwilleran asked sympathetically.

"It's a funny thing, Qwill. The chicken incident didn't faze him because he could use his clout to squash the implications, but little things drive him bananas—like the pickets last weekend, and the critical letters to the editor, and the snake-bite item in today's paper. He says, "Who cares if some snooty rich kid gets bitten by a snake?" He says it's not important news. He says it only tarnishes the image of the resort, which is a boon to the community. When the paper reported the county's decision to spray for mosquitoes by plane, he got all kinds of flak, and he blamed you guys for playing it up on page one."

"Are we running a newspaper or a publicity agency?" Qwilleran asked.

"He's not dumb; he knows he can't dictate to the press," said Dwight, "but he has these insane tantrums! If I play Devil's advocate, in the interest of public relations, I get dumped on. Wait'll you hear his latest brainstorm!" He gulped the rest of his drink and waved his glass at the waiter.

Qwilleran advised him to order some food, too. "I'll have coffee and a piece of pie ... Okay, what's his latest noodle?"

"Well, he's afraid we're getting too many families with five kids and a picnic basket, instead of the sophisticated crowd he intended. So he wants to offer a Midsummer Night's Dream weekend package—everything first class and limited to thirty persons, adults only. It includes transportation from the mainland by private boat; flowers and champagne in the rooms; breakfast in bed; and a supper-dance on Midsummer's Eve."

"Sounds okay," Qwilleran said.

"He wants it outdoors, with white tablecloths, fresh flowers on the tables, three wine glasses at every place, hurricane candles, strolling musicians, and waiters in white coats with black bowties. No pirate shirts! That would be okay around the pool; if it rained, we could set up indoors. But here's the fly in the soup: He wants it at the lighthouse!" Dwight took a swig of his second double martini.

"Can you imagine the logistics?" he went on. "First you need a fleet of wagons to transport tables, chairs, portable dance floor, table settings, food warmers, chilled wine, and portable Johns. There are no facilities up there. Then you need a fleet of carriages to transport the guests. The ground behind the lighthouse is uneven, and how do you keep the tables and chairs from wobbling? The wind is capable of whipping the tablecloths around, blowing the napkins away, putting out the candles, breaking the glass chimneys, and even blowing the food off the plates! And suppose it starts to rain!"

"Hasn't Don ever been to Lighthouse Point?"

"Of course he has, but he never lets reality and common sense get in the way of a fanciful idea."

Qwilleran said, "I see a great scenario for a comedy skit. You have all the guests on the rock, getting happily plastered, and it starts to rain. No shelter. No carriages; they've returned to the stables. Everyone's drenched. The steaks are swimming on the plates. Thunder is crashing; lightning is flashing. Then the fog horn starts blatting, fifty feet from everyone's eardrums. The guests riot. Two of them take refuge inside the portable potties and refuse to come out. I think it has infinite possibilities for laughs."

"Not funny," said Dwight, but he laughed just the same and applied himself to his steak. Finally he said to Qwilleran, "And what have you been doing all week?"

"Not much. I rescued a mermaid from certain death, that's all." He described the incident with more detail than he had wasted on other listeners.

"It figures," Dwight said with envy. "The guy who has an indecent fortune of his own is the lucky one who rescues an heiress. What's she like?"

"She has the svelte figure of a rainbow trout, the hair of a mermaid, and flowing garments that probably hide a tail. Want me to line her up for you? In case you get fired, it would be useful to have an heiress on the string."

"No, thanks. Finders keepers," said Dwight. "What do you hear from Polly?"

"She hasn't even sent a postcard, but I bet she phones Pickax every night and talks to Bootsie."

"I'm envious of your relationship with Polly, Qwill. You're comfortable friends, and you keep your independence. I've been in Moose County almost a year without any luck. I've bought dinner for every unattached female within fifty miles, except Amanda Goodwinter, and I may get around to her yet. So far, no one has passed the litmus test. Hixie Rice is my type, if you want to know, but she's tied up with that doctor."

"It won't last long," Qwilleran reassured him. "No one ever lasts long with Hixie, and that would go for you, too."

Dwight said sheepishly, "I even took June Halliburton to dinner at the Palomino Paddock and spent half a week's salary. It was a bust!"

"What happened?" Qwilleran asked, although he could guess.

"You know how she is! She has looks, talent, and credentials, but she says the damnedest things! We were drinking seventy-dollar champagne, and she looked at me with those suggestive eyes and said, "You're a handsome, intelligent man, Dwight, with a wonderful personality. Why don't you shave off that scruffy beard and invest in a good toupee?" That's typical of that woman. She pursues guys as if she likes them, and then stomps on "em. How well do you know her?"

"Well enough to know I don't want to know her any better."

"I think of her as a predatory misanthrope."

"That'll do until a stronger word comes along,"

Qwilleran said. "At the Hikers" wedding she was coming on to every man at the reception, including the bridegroom. Polly can't stand her. When they meet, you could light a cigarette from the sparks."

"Did you ever write June up in your column?" "Almost. I intended to interview her about music in the schools, but she wanted to make it a social occasion at her apartment. When I insisted on an office appointment, she proved impossible to interview. It was verbal football. She called the plays, carried the ball, straight-armed questions, and made end runs around the subject. The way it ended, she scored all the points, but I won the game. I never wrote the column."

"You media types always get the last word. I'm in the wrong business."

Qwilleran said, "Another time, I invited the Comptons over for a drink after the theater, and they brought June. She didn't stay long. She said the circular building and diagonal ramps gave her a headache. Actually it was Koko giving her the whammy. When he stares at someone's forehead, it's like a gimlet boring into the brain." "What was his problem?" Dwight asked. "Apparently he didn't like her scent." "Starting this weekend, she'll be here for the whole summer."

"I know," Qwilleran said. "I saw her getting off the ferry with a lot of luggage—and an eye for the mounted security men in red coats. Was she another of Exbridge's bright ideas?"

"No, she approached him with the proposition." "What is she doing in this remote part of the country anyway? With all her talents she belongs in a major city Down Below. I'll have to ask Lyle Compton how she landed in Moose County. He's the one who hired her."

"Lyle will be here Sunday night, doing his talk on Scotland. Do you have any big plans for the weekend?"

"Just dining with Arch and Mildred tomorrow night," Qwilleran said, "and avoiding my musical neighbor."

As Qwilleran walked back to the Domino Inn, he had to stand aside for emergency vehicles speeding up the beach road. He could imagine that a member of the Grand Island Club had a heart attack, or a carriageful of tourists overturned, or the kid who was leaning over the ferry railing fell over the cliff at the lighthouse. By the time he reached the inn, the vehicles were speeding back downtown, and the sheriff's helicopter could be heard.

The guests sitting in porch swings were all agog when Qwilleran walked up the driveway. Someone called out, "Mitchell, he came back!" The four-year-old rushed indoors and rushed out again to hand him an envelope with an important crest on the flap.

Mrs. Harding said, "It was delivered by a man in green livery, driving a very handsome buggy with a beautiful horse!"

At Four Pips the Siamese were allowed to sniff the envelope, and their noses registered excitement. The note read:

Dear Mr. Qwilleran,

Please honor us by having tea at The Pines Sunday afternoon. We wish to thank you in person for coming to the rescue of our daughter Elizabeth after her unfortunate mishap. She is out of danger, we are glad to say, and returns to the island tomorrow. It will be our pleasure to send a carriage for you at four o'clock Sunday.

It was signed "Rowena Appelhardt." She was the queen mother, Qwilleran guessed, and this was to be a command appearance at Buckingham Palace. At least, he would see the peacocks, and Mrs. Harding said the refreshments were commendable.

The Siamese were prowling and yowling and looking lean and hungry. He checked their feeding station. The plate was empty, but the cubes of meatloaf had merely been scattered about the floor of the kitchenette. They looked dry and unappetizing.

"Shame on you!" he said. "There are homeless cats that would kill for a taste of this meatloaf! And it behooves you to get used to it, because we have another eight pounds coming."

He shoveled up the rejected delicacy and took it up the lane to the old glazed birdbath that served as a feeding station for the wild cats. Before he could even empty his bowl, three of them came from nowhere to fight for their share. Then he saw Nick Bamba, home for the weekend and hammering nails into a wooden contraption.

"What are you doing?" Qwilleran asked.

"Building a rack to keep the trash barrels off the ground. It's neater, and the strays can sleep underneath. Lori's idea."

"You never quit, do you, Nick?"

"Compared to my job at the prison, this is R-and-R. Did you have a good week? Did you find out anything?"

"So far I've been feeling my way and making contacts. Stop in tomorrow, and we'll talk."

Qwilleran went into the lounge for an apple and found that the basket was filled with pears! While there he heard a radio newscast coming from an alcove, where a family of three were playing dominoes. He walked over and said, "Mind if I listen? I'm interested in tomorrow's weather."

"You've just missed it," said the father. He turned to his son. "Do you remember what they said about the weather, Brad?"

The boy was about ten years old and looked too intelligent for his age; he wore a T-shirt printed with the words: Ask Me. He said, "Moderately high winds subsiding at midnight. Waves three to four feet. Tomorrow sunny and warm with light winds from the southeast, veering to southwest by afternoon. High tomorrow: seventy-five. Low—"

"Hush," his father said, holding up a hand and inclining his head toward the radio. The announcer was saying:

"... police bulletin from Pear Island, where a shooting claimed the life of a vacationer this evening. The victim, an adult male, was hang gliding on the sand dune at the north end of the island when his companions heard a gunshot and the kite fell into the shallow water of the lake. Suffering from hypothermia as well as loss of blood, he was given emergency aid at the scene by the volunteer rescue squad before being airlifted by sheriff's helicopter to the mainland. He was pronounced dead on arrival at the Pickax General Hospital. Gunfire, not unusual on the island, had been noted throughout the day and evening. The fatal bullet is thought to be a stray shot fired by a varmint hunter, according to the sheriff's department. The victim's name has not been released at this time, but police say he was not a resident of Moose County."

"Nobody told us about gunfire on the island!" said the mother. "I hate guns!"

As Qwilleran walked back to Four Pips, he thought, Another incident! . . . Nick will spend a sleepless night, worrying about the future of the inn . . . The woman who hates guns will convince her husband to cut their visit short . . . The Moseley sisters will be glad they're canceling . . . The two men who look like detectives, having left, will come back.

He counted on his fingers: One, food poisoning. Two, drowning. Three, bad fall. Four, explosion. Five, shooting ... He was impressed by the diversity of the mishaps. There was no pattern, except that they all targeted tourists at regularly spaced intervals. Qwilleran pictured a consortium of saboteurs, each performing his own specialty. The islanders were crafty, skilled, and knowledgeable as a result of the hard life they lived. What mystified him was Koko's lack of interest and cooperation. In the past he had sensed the presence of crime and sniffed for clues. Perhaps the island atmosphere dulled his senses. True, he had staged a catfit that caused Qwilleran to be the right person in the right place at the right time, but that had nothing to do with the five suspicious incidents.

At Four Pips the Siamese continued to look at Qwilleran reproachfully and hungrily, and it required great fortitude to hold out against their wiles. He would give them their crunchy bedtime snack, but that was all; for breakfast he would serve meatloaf again on a take-it-or-leave-it basis.

After dark the three of them liked to sit on the screened porch, listening to mysterious sounds in the trees and underbrush, but tonight there was competition from Five Pips: piano playing, voices, recorded music, laughter. Qwilleran sorted out the voices: two of them, one female, one male. Later, the music stopped and the voices were muffled. He went indoors, read for a while, gave the cats their treat, and then retired.

He fell asleep easily and had one of his fanciful dreams: The natives living on Pear Island were penguins, and the tourists were puffin birds. A great bald eagle appeared and attempted to tow the island to the mainland, but he was shot down by a rabbit hunter, and the island sank to the bottom of the lake.

"Whew!" Qwilleran gasped, waking and sitting up in bed. He could hear happy voices next door, saying good night. The male guest was leaving with a flashlight, and Qwilleran hoped it would illuminate the man's face when he passed Four Pips—not that it was any of Qwilleran's business, but he was observant by nature and by profession. His curiosity was aroused, however, when the visitor left by way of the nature trail.